


Despise Small Beginnings

by StrikeTeamDelta (panicsdownpour)



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Marvel Universe, Red Room, Strike Team Delta, eventual strike team delta, pre-avengers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panicsdownpour/pseuds/StrikeTeamDelta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Agent Barton was sent to kill me. He made a different call."</p><p>A look back at Clint’s different call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Despise Small Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing a long time, but this is my first foray into fan fiction. Very rough, very fresh, very short. Very unfinished. A preview more than anything. Additions to come very soon!
> 
> Forgive my Russian- I’m having a friend of mine help me with it in the future, but for now I beg a little mercy. Feedback and/or creative criticism welcome!

* * *

_Pique and again- остановка! Do you take any pride in self or state? сфокусировать, Natalia, focus!_

The blast’s flash has set off a series of glimpses, of faded pinks and gun metal, pockmarked targets and a wall of mirrors.  


_Focus_. The longer Natasha groped for a grip on the memory, the more difficult it became to visualize. Then gone, again. Aside from that one word a voice shrill.

 _сфокусировать_. Focus. It was what Natasha repeated to herself in that almost unfamiliar mother tongue, a command and a plea, sizing up tonight’s target, vision shaky from the explosion moments before, hands shaky from the hairline fracture running along her radius. It wasn’t the blood she’d seen. Couldn’t be the blood. Not with her background, hours and hours in the dance studio. No, not the studio. The training room. The training room? She doesn’t have time to sort out her memories for the umpteenth time because here he comes, suited up in a strange mix of black and plum stained with blood that’s only part his. Heavy boots crunch over grit and his sheath is slung across his back, bow string pulled taut but aimed off at an angle, and she hates him for it. She is still a threat. She does not deserve this show of pity. Degrading.  


Her shaky fingers finally decide again they like following orders, push in the trigger of her Glock, and the kickback makes her vision go white with the pain.  


Natasha never misses, but there’s a first time for everything. She’s hit the man with a point-blank shot, only lower than she intended, and instead of a debilitating hit to his knee cap she’s left only a flesh wound and a litany of swears before her gun has been knocked skittering across the cement and an arrow lodged snug in her shoulder. The man’s face is at her level now, swimming in her dizziness, and she can make out the pain in the pull of his muscles. More to her interest is the blow to the head she predicts is coming, at least hard enough to put her out for an hour, maybe two, so he can haul her. If he lets her live that long. SHIELD’s warrant hadn’t asked for her alive.  


A deep voice and the shadow of a raised black jack. Natasha didn’t bother bracing herself.

“You’ll thank me later, Red. Scout’s honor.” 


End file.
